


Wants vs. Needs

by orphan_account



Series: Terrible and True [17]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Cissexism, Gen, M/M, Transphobia, homophobic slur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 12:49:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3174178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been so long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wants vs. Needs

Tuesday, December 28, 1999

_Men have needs._

Numbers isn’t sure why or how Wrench’s words in Lovera’s basement seek him out and find him through the painful, persistent fog of his hangover, but they’re the first thought on his mind when consciousness strikes him awake like a slap across the face. Pulling himself upright, he squints against the slivers of early afternoon sun shouldering their way through his plastic blinds. Everything feels like an intrusion when he first wakes up under normal circumstances, let alone when his head’s threatening to split open like Athena waits on the inside of his skull, ready to burst forth fully grown and brimming with righteous fury. He shoves the empty beer cans off his nightstand and groans, nauseated by the mere sight of them.

With clumsy hands fumbling at a nearly-empty pack of cigarettes, he considers the sentiment. Needs. To Numbers, sex firmly falls into the “wants” column; he sometimes goes so long without it that if it were a need he would have starved to death a dozen times over by now. Finding a guy who wants to fuck isn’t the difficult part—he can go to virtually any bar and find a man all too eager to, any day of the week—the problem is finding someone who doesn’t mind what he lacks, someone whose wants outweigh their reservations.

But alcohol helps. Alcohol’s the great destroyer of many things, perception being one of them. When Numbers decides to seek out intimacy on those increasingly rare occasions, liquor’s usually involved, and when it is he makes sure both he and his one-night, limited-time-only partner have a plentiful amount in them. Shitfaced guys are less inclined to notice that Numbers isn’t like most men, and, if by some chance they _do_ notice, Numbers will be too drunk to care about the inevitable rejection or violence or both. It’s not the greatest system, and there’s a lot of room for potentially dangerous error, but he’ll be the first to admit he’s not always the best at coming up with plans. If that fact wasn’t obvious to him before, this last job has made that painfully and abundantly evident.

As his shrinking cigarette becomes mostly filter he decides he’s not going to spend the day alone, feeling sorry for himself and nursing his hangover before working on a fresh one. For the first time in far too long he’ll act on the desire, if only because it’ll allow him, for a few brief, blissful moments, to forget. Before he can second-guess himself he’s dressed and walking out the door, the want burning a fiery hole in his belly.

There’s a place Numbers knows of in the next town over, right across the state line. He heard about it through work, of all fucking places—the last place he ever wants to hear about gay bars or gay people or politics or anything besides, well, _work_ , and his attention span is limited enough when it comes to that as it is. After overhearing Mr. Banks detailing how one of his informant’s sons had been busted with a fake ID “up in a fag bar,” Numbers made the decision to suffer through small talk, taking cautious care to keep his questions nonchalant enough to not raise any eyebrows or garner any suspicion. Long story short, the kid got disowned and shipped off to some boarding school out in Montana, but Numbers got the name and general location of the place for his ten minutes of trouble and stomach-churning discomfort.

The bar’s a small, unassuming kind of establishment, the sort of hole in the wall most towns have that don’t garner so much as a second glimpse let alone a visit from people unless they’re looking for it specifically. Behind the door is a different world, an isolated little planet tucked away and hidden from the sun-flooded streets by a heavy, black, windowless barrier. Rainbow decorations cover the walls and neon signs advertise plenty of poisons to choose from, but after a sweeping glance around the sparsely-populated room in the brief flash of daylight, Numbers finds something infinitely more interesting than all the cheap lager in the world.

He’s young; not so young that he shouldn’t be in a bar, but young enough that it’s the first thing Numbers notices. Younger than Wrench, probably—and that’s the _last_ fucking thought Numbers wants crossing his mind. Slender and tall, with an unkempt halo of red hair and the sort of casual smile locked on Numbers that usually only means one thing, he eyes Numbers with idle interest for a few beats before raising an eyebrow at his two friends, who seem to approve of his taste. They mutter over what are probably post-work martinis, though they quiet down as Numbers approaches.

From behind the bar, a man closer to Numbers’ age nods in his direction. “Can I get you something?”

“Yeah,” Numbers sidles up to the counter, close-but-not-too-close to the guy who was checking him out. “Bottle of brandy.”

A pause, and then a nervous, borderline incredulous laugh emerges from the bartender’s open mouth. “I can’t let you drink a whole bottle of brandy—”

Numbers waves his hand, effectively silencing the bartender. “It’s not just for me.” He drops his shades and a fresh pack of smokes onto the bar. “I’ll be sharing it with my friend here…” Numbers turns, knowing the man next to him has been watching and listening. He flashes the least threatening smile in his arsenal.

“Matt,” the stranger supplies, his own mouth upturned in a charming, lopsided grin, a flash of sunshine beneath a canopy of freckles.

Numbers turns back towards the barkeep, withdraws a crisp hundred dollar bill from his wallet, and lets it fall to the counter. “Two glasses,” he says, holding up his index and middle fingers, more out of being in the habit of signing again than anything else. When the man doesn’t move, he smiles wider. “Please.”

After another pause the bartender twists around, shaking his head despite complying with Numbers’ request.

Numbers cocks his head towards Matt, tilting his chin up. He decides to tell Matt his name is Jimmy. He hates that name, but, in a lot of ways and for a lot of reasons, he hates himself right now.

“Jimmy,” Matt repeats, a hungry purr that pairs devilishly with the once-over he gives Numbers. “Let’s get to know each other.”

~~~~

Flirtatious small talk over rapidly-emptying tumblers gives way to brandy-soaked kisses so quickly that Numbers vaguely wonders why, if hooking up could be so easy, he doesn’t do it more often.

The sofa they’re situated on in one of the bar’s darker corners is far from comfortable but that’s the furthest thing from Numbers’ thoughts when Matt’s lips are as intoxicating as the liquor, when Matt’s tongue slides inside Numbers’ mouth and works with such skill that Numbers almost wishes he had a dick for the guy to suck. They’re devolving into a sloppy entanglement of arms and torsos, grabbing and touching and clinging with increasing desperation. Matt’s hand roves across Numbers’ chest on its way back towards his neck, palming over a hard nipple along the way and with a sharp gasp Numbers pries his mouth away from the other man’s, suddenly needing to catch his breath.

Matt cups Numbers’ cheek as their sweat-speckled foreheads meet in the space between them, narrow enough that their lips are still almost touching. They can taste each other’s breath as they shallowly pant through their parted mouths. Numbers allows his eyes to flit downward, and now it’s a groan that passes over his lips when he sees that Matt is visibly hard. Rubbing his thumb along Matt’s jaw line, Numbers pulls away and downs another half glass of brandy, and whatever reservations that he still held on to up until that moment, however feeble, are chased away by the heat of the liquor as quickly as his heart’s thrumming in his chest. Soon enough Matt’s eager lips are back on Numbers’.

Numbers has the presence to mumble something about protection between kisses, though he can’t be certain if he’s actually said all the words or substituted some of them for signs while Matt preoccupies his mouth. Again Wrench crosses his thoughts, this time making a brief, flickering appearance with his face screwed up in judgment, maybe disappointment. He kisses Matt with more fervor, as if to exorcise his partner from his mind.

Matt pulls away, nipping Numbers’ swollen bottom lip as he shifts back, his eyes glassy and heavy-lidded. “What? You’re clean, right?”

Numbers’ eyes rove over his face, hesitant yet hungry. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m clean…”

As if that settles the matter, Matt slips an arm around Numbers’ middle and pulls them together again, sliding his tongue into his mouth where it’s enthusiastically met with Numbers’ own. Then, he begins trailing a hand down Numbers’ chest.

Be it from the alcohol or the fevered neediness of the kissing, Numbers’ guard is lowered so much that he doesn’t register just _how_ far Matt’s hand is travelling. Soon his fingertips are reaching the smooth prongs of his belt buckle, and a split second after that, it’s too late.

“What the…?” Matt pulls away, confusion steeped into his words and face. He’s unsure if Numbers is just soft or…lacking, but he can’t understand how that’s possible. His hand does a hard double-take on Numbers’ crotch.

With a hiss, Numbers’ fingers grasp tight around Matt’s wrist. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t breathe. Everything hinges on what happens within the next few moments, and Numbers mentally maps his exit strategy. Summoning as much composure as he can possibly muster, he guides Matt’s hand up and away, as gently as he’s able, until it’s held in mid-air between them.

“What the hell?” Matt slurs, trying to scoot away. “Is this some kind of joke? Or…”

It’s as if Matt’s head’s translucent, and Numbers can almost see the wheels working furiously within his alcohol-addled brain. Finally something seems to dawn on him and his bleary eyes grow dark with a sort of panicked loathing that takes Numbers back to so many other times with so many other men. Out of a defiant, looming fear telling him he needs to control the situation, he digs his fingers into Matt’s skin.

“Let go of me!” Matt spits, the booze on his breath no longer smelling sweet. He tries to wrench his arm free with sloppy, sputtering motions. “Get away from me, you…you _freak_!”

Even though the word rings through Numbers’ ears like the aftershock of a bomb, he relents, shoving Matt’s wrist away from him. He runs a hand through his hair and finally takes a deep breath, though the air feels heavy and oppressive in his lungs. He’s got to leave, got to remove himself from this. Go home, to another bar, anywhere but here. He wills his legs to move and finally manages to stand, his head feeling heavy as the brandy sloshes through him.

Numbers grabs his smokes and sunglasses and throws on his coat as quickly and calmly as he can, telling himself that at least it’s over, that he’ll be out the door in a minute and he can put this mess behind him with the rest of this shitty week. If he can just get through the next few seconds, if he can just make the room less shaky he can make out of here and never look back.

“Hey!” Matt lurches upright, his freed arm extending above his head. With an intensity that almost causes him to lose his balance he waves to his friends, still sitting across the smoky bar and now looking over with a mixture of confusion and concern. Even the bartender peeks out from behind a beam and joins in on the gawking. “Hey! This guy’s a fucking—”

And then Matt crumbles to the floor.

Numbers drops the bottle of brandy, his arm soaking wet from the liquid that sloshed out as he had swung it at the man’s head. If the bottle made a sound as it hit the carpet, he honestly isn’t able to tell. He stands there for a moment, expecting relief to wash over him, to wash away the panic and settle in because this horrible experience is over. But it doesn’t come. His mouth goes dry. He fucking killed him. His reaction to nearly being outed is to fucking kill him, and _God_ , when did he become this way? It’s one thing to kill when the job calls for it and another thing entirely to kill just because he wants to and can.

Matt’s friends are yelling, and even Matt, on the sticky carpet at his feet, is stirring, but Numbers can’t process any of it, he’s just running, stumbling towards the door, shaking free somebody who grabs at his jacket and finally bursting out onto the street as the men inside holler about calling 911. He wants to vomit. The sun’s so bright above him and everything around him feels like a parody of normalcy as he rushes down the sidewalk, away from the latest incident in a long, ugly string of things he’ll regret.


End file.
